Intoxicated Truth
by knobbly knees
Summary: Shisui's dead. And he can't save Itachi from breaking. All he can do is let the sake take his place. Au Ita/Shi Character Death. Language warning.


I died when I was eighteen. Kind of.

That's fucking morbid, isn't it? On the eve of my birthday too, which just rubbed salt to the wound. You'd think the night before my eighteenth would be a riot, and a riot it was, with me going for a drunken dip and dying with koi in my hair and algae between my toes. I wonder what ever happened to that damn fish anyway. It probably floundered about on the shore after Itachi pulled me out, but fuck, it lived longer than I did.

Seriously, were the fates PMSing or what? I hadn't done anything to deserve taking my last breaths with grimy water up my nose. I was a_ fan-fucking-tastic_ kid. So what if I'd broken into my old school and spray painted male anatomy all over Orochimaru-Sensei's desk ( he probably rubbed his desk rather frequently due to my majestic art. The image of Itachi strewn across his desk, and not purple depictions of unmentionables, was most likely imagined), or because I'd lit my cousins hair on fire. It was all trivial, and juvenile. I didn't need to fucking_ die._

So, I'm still technically seventeen, but in reality (I'm thinking dammit! I am not combing some guy's beard. That makes it reality. So there) I'm three days eighteen and am on my way to my own funeral. The point and fact is that I'm gate crashing my own send off. Ironic, huh?

I never liked churches. My father knew this, and therefore thought it wise to humour the dead and be creative with my ceremonial last act. But, tell me, the victim in all of this, why the fuck does my father deem it honourable to bury me in a _wicker basket_, and have deer roam around me in the middle of a goddamned forest? Huh?

No wonder my mother left him.

Woah. There's a few people excluding the ridiculous being that is my father actually here. Fuck-face of the Century Fugaku is leaning against a tree, and biting his nails. Hey, at least he isn't doing his own rendition of a Satanic chicken dance on top of that wicker (_WICKER_) basket. My _ohsocharming_ brat of a sixth cousin, thrice removed or something, Sasuke is scowling at Bambi, and his mother, Mikoto _(Oh god)_ is actually crying. And Itachi should be right beside-

_That bitch._

That fucking son of a bastard (Mikoto isn't a bitch, whereas her husband is) didn't go to my funeral. My _funeral_! Come on! His face will be rendered concave when I find him. You just _don't_ skip out on your best friend's funeral. And really, Itachi should have known better than to leave my father to his own ludicrous devices (_wicker_).

_That fucker._

Well, my funeral must be left for more pressing matters. Like the demise of one Uchiha Itachi. Where could that social retard be? Not at my funeral, apparently.

Was he brooding in his freakishly tidy room, conditioning his feminine_ (fuck, Itachi, are you considering becoming a transvestite?)_ hair? No.

Was he weeping uncontrollably by the Nakano, contemplating his foreseeable dim life without my epicness to keep him sane? No.

Was he getting ready to pitch himself off the waterfall, wishing for his own demise that I would happily give him at this moment in time? No.

Was he shit-faced drunk in my bedroom, blasting My Chemical Romance, adding to my eternally messy abode by throwing everything and anything he could get his hands on? _Yes._

I'd never seen Itachi _drunkdrunk_ before. Sure, we'd frequently gotten dangerously tipsy, edging into pleasantly plastered, but he'd never gotten completely pissed. I did, obviously (and consequently _DIED _from it in a roundabout way, coupled with my own sober stupidity and intoxicated genius) but never Itachi. Even if his father was the Chief of Police, underage drinking was too tempting to be ignored. Obeying the law is overrated anyway.

Anyway, seemingly, a drunk Itachi is an angry Itachi. Perhaps my abrupt kicking of the bucket had something to do with his sudden change of demeanour in retrospect, but _neigh._ It's much easier to come to terms with his intolerance to the sake currently clouding his mind than to come to terms that I'm dead. Yeah.

His usual preternaturally white cheeks were tinted a rosy pink and were suspiciously damp. With his hair tie MIA, dark hair was plastered to his clammy forehead in such a disturbing way that he looked like he was..._breaking._ But, he also looked so girly beyond belief that I couldn't help but want to throw a tampon or something at him, to do anything to make him roll his eyes, or scoff. Just to make him look _okay_ again.

"It's my fault! My fucking fault," oh, there go my few books Itachi himself had bought for me, flying off the shelf with a jerk of a too think wrist. My bed was just waiting to spontaneously combust, what with still lit cigarettes thrown sporadically across the duvet. Jeesh, Itachi. Those cost_ money._

I looked away from my shaking _(stop crying... please)_ best friend, and instead took interest in the fact that I even owned a My Chemical Romance CD. Where the fuck did that come from?

"Why did you have to die?"

_(Stopstopstopstop it)_

"Why couldn't I save you?"

_(What have I done to you?)_

"It's my fucking fault!"

_(I've broken you. Tell me how to fix you)_

"You can't be dead!"

_(I'm notnotnotnotnot)_

"Don't leave me alone!"

_(Let me come back to you)_

"Why was I not with you?"

_(Stop breaking)_

"At least let me go with you!"

_(Don't you dare)_

"I love you!"

_(Stopstopstop it)_

"It hurts!"

_(I wantwantwant to help you)_

"Please."

_(I am so sorrysorrysorry)_

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god," he stumbled to my window that I had tumbled out of so many times to meet him, and leapt out with a despair that just screamed '_help me_'.

But I can't help him. I can only follow.

Why can't I hold his hair back when he vomits violently onto the sloping grass that is too familiar_ (don't go there)_? Why can't I wipe away the tears that are too thick, and too fast, from his face _(stopstopstop it)_? Why can't I help him back to his feet when he stumbles _(please)_ to his frail knees? Why can't I crush him into an embrace to make all the wrong go away _(I need you to be okay)_?

Why can't I save you?

He stumbles over to a tree that is forever etched into my mind _(don't make me think) _and his. Our drinking spot of sorts. Where we would drink our nicked sake and talk nonsense for hours. Where I would laugh and choke and he would smirk and slap my back. Where I would sing out of tune and he would cock his eyebrow. Where our laughs turned lower, and our whispers more personal. Where we would let the alcohol take us away. Where then I would slur something to kill the mood, and where he would shove the bottle back into my sluggish grasp, and look away.

Where we were sober and where I kissed him, and he kissed me.

He tipped the sake bottle over the trodden dust, and filled our nail marks and rough handprints with the pale liquid that was amplifying his grief _(it's my fault)_ and adding to my own despair.

I'm dead. And he's breaking. And I can't fix him, because he always fixed me and put me back together. I can't help him. I can't fix him. I can't be there for him. I can't kiss him. I can't undo it. I can't do anything.

I can't save him. I can't make the pain go away. I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't.

He pitches the clay jug into the Nakano, and I follow it. I go to the drug that is hurting Itachi, and I go to the drug that I relied on, and I go to so that I can leave him. I go so that he can forget. So that it doesn't hurt either of us so much. I go to my death.

_(I love you)_

_

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_**A/N:**_ Woah, I've never written (finished?) an ItaShi, and this started out light hearted, and ended up morbid. Well, bob's your tea pot. I know Itachi is so OOC in this, but well, he is pissed. And no offence to any wicker enthusiasts. I've to go do a copius amount of homework now, so I enjoyed writing this :)

Please review?


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